


Nothing Happened

by Shadowcatxx



Category: One Piece
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Canon Era, Eventual Romance, Gap Filler, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Language, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Starvation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:29:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27187286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadowcatxx/pseuds/Shadowcatxx
Summary: Sanji’s worst nightmare comes true when the Sunny gets lost at sea, with no escape and nothing to eat. It’s his job to feed the crew, his job to save them, but in order to do that he’ll have to face his deepest childhood fear and make a sacrifice. A sacrifice that only Zoro truly understands. The cook and the swordsman will have to save each other before they can save their crew, but that will require them getting much closer than either one of them ever expected.
Relationships: Roronoa Zoro/Vinsmoke Sanji
Comments: 79
Kudos: 250





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> "One Piece" — Eiichiro Oda
> 
> Please excuse my taking liberties with some canon material and character relationships. This story is set after the events of the Thriller Bark arc and contains spoilers for the pre-timeskip era and hints for the post-timeskip era. Thank-you very much for your time and interest in my story. I hope you enjoy it! :D

**FLORIAN TRIANGLE**

_Stay the sails_!” Nami screamed, but her order was swallowed by the wind. It howled as it rocked the _Thousand Sunny_ , tossing the sturdy vessel to-and-fro upon the swirling, black sea. Rain lashed down in a torrent, making it difficult to see, difficult to move. It was cold and heavy. Again, the ship pitched sideways, nearly capsizing but for the herculean efforts of her frantic crew.

“ _Sunny_!” Franky cried as the ship groaned from the pressure of sucking whirlpools, generated by the storm. He knew the ship’s body wouldn’t break, for Adam wood was the strongest in the world, but the relentless bashing would do damage to her joints and organs, the insides that protected her crew. The door to Usopp’s factory flew off its swinging hinges and tore across the deck; Robin deflected it with the arms of her _Hana Hana no Mi_ before it could slam into Brook. The main sail tore loose from its rigging and ballooned like a circus tent, pulling the Sunny parallel with the waves. Luffy wrapped one arm around the mast and stretched out the other to wrap around Usopp, who tumbled over the bulkhead. Sanji used Luffy’s shoulder as a springboard and raced up the mast to secure the sail. In the infirmary, Chopper in human-form hugged unconscious Zoro to his chest, trying to be careful of the swordsman’s injuries while protecting him from the raging pandemonium within and without.

“ _Luffy_ , _the rocks_!”

Clinging tightly to the sail, Sanji saw the oncoming labyrinth of massive, jet-black rocks, each one jutting up from the waves like an island all its own. He saw Luffy dive for the nearest one and push off of it, diverting the Sunny from a collision and sending her in the opposite direction. He saw Franky grab Luffy before the captain could fall—limp—into the debilitating drink. He saw the sea part and felt it surge as it gathered momentum. He was halfway down the mast when he heard Nami’s warning:

“ _Take cover_!”

But it was too late.

A titanic wave crashed down.


	2. One

**SANJI**

**DAY ONE**

Sanji puffed on a cigarette as he surveyed the damage.

His galley was in utter ruins. The only things intact were the large appliances, the stovetop, oven, sink, and refrigerator; and the dining table and chairs could be repaired; but all of his cupboards, his storeroom! They were destroyed. The pantry had flooded and almost all of the unsealed food was spoiled. He picked his way through the catastrophe, avoiding the glass of smashed bottles and broken boxes, and began to salvage what he could—preservatives and some fruits and vegetables mostly—but there wasn’t much left. Everything was waterlogged; bread fell apart in his hands and every grain of rice was soggy. The eggs were broken. The flour, sugar, salt and most other herbs and spices were ruined. All of the cured meat was tainted. All of the glass and chinaware was smashed. But still Sanji worked diligently to gather what he could, wasting nothing, and gnawing the end of his cigarette in quiet rage and secret fear.

_There’s not enough_ , he thought, checking the contents of the fridge.

How far to their next destination, Sabaody Archipelago? How long until they could leave the Florian Triangle and resupply?

_I can make it last_ , he hoped, taking an inventory of what was left.

_I_ will _make it last_!

Sanji was the protégé of Red-Leg Zeff and the cook of the future pirate king, after all. And like hell the former sous-chef of the Baratie couldn’t keep his crew fed at sea!

They would be fine. They always were, in the end. Nami would set a course. Franky and Usopp would repair the battered ship. Robin would lend her academic advice. Luffy would protect them. Brook would keep their spirits up. Chopper would heal their cuts and bruises (and keep that shitty swordsman alive). And Sanji would feed them all. That was his job and that is what he would do. No matter what, he wouldn’t let his _nakama_ go hungry.

* * *

**DAY SEVEN**

I have to start rationing our food supply,” said Sanji, making eye-contact with no one. Instead, he looked at the empty aquarium behind them, the glass smashed, the tank dry.

For a moment, no one spoke. Then everyone spoke at once:

“Oh no, Sanji-bro!” wailed Franky.

“Is it really that bad?” asked Usopp. “Are we that low on food?”

“Are we all going to become skeletons?” gasped Brook, then added: “Oh, but I’m already a skeleton.”

“I’m sorry, Sanji-kun,” said Nami tiredly, bowing her forehead to rest on folded hands. “I’m sorry I can’t get us out of here, everyone.”

“No, Nami-san, it’s not your fault,” Sanji reassured her, seconded by Robin.

“It seems that we are stuck in uncharted waters,” she said. “A mysterious place without sea-life or any trace of human-beings, where the weather does nothing but storm unpredictably. It’s the opposite of the Calm Belt and it will kill us in opposite ways, I think.”

“ _Robin_!” Usopp cried in fright.

Sanji looked out the window and saw what he had seen every day for the past week: a thick grey fog and rain. The rain was gentle today—right now, at least—and pattered almost playfully against the window glass. But he didn’t trust it. The sun didn’t shine within the dark Florian Triangle and the weather here, wherever _here_ was, could turn in an instant, from a harmless mist one moment to a raging hurricane the next. It was impossible to navigate without the sun and sky to reference, or any familiar land masses, or a reliable magnetic pull. And worse, the Log Pose would not reset.

“It’s like it thinks we’re on an island,” said Nami, tapping the compass with her fingernail. “It was pointing to the west before, but now it’s… it’s nothing.”

“If we _are_ on an island,” said Robin thoughtfully, “then it must be submerged. And if the Log Pose _is_ waiting to reset, there’s no telling how long it might take.”

“Maybe we should try exploring again with the Shark Submerge III?” Usopp suggested, but Franky shook his head.

“It’s still damaged from last time,” he said balefully. “The currents are too strong. It’ll just be smashed on the rocks.”

“The currents are most likely why there’s no fish here,” Robin added. “I don’t think any living creature could survive down there.”

“And no birds in the sky, either,” Usopp sulked. “There’s nothing to eat!”

“Someone needs to tell Luffy,” said Nami.

“I’ll do it,” said Sanji, knowing that he was the sole authority on food in Luffy’s life. The captain would accept rationing from no one else. Frankly, even Sanji feared his reaction.

But Luffy surprised him. He was lying on his back on the mane of Sunny’s figurehead, staring up at the rainy sky, and he simply said: “Okay.”

Sanji blinked. Had Luffy not heard him? Had he not understood?

“Luffy,” he said doubtfully, “we don’t know how long we’ll be stuck here, or how far it is to the next island, so I have to ration our food supply. That means one meal a day for everyone.”

“Okay,” Luffy repeated, seemingly nonplused. Then he turned his head, his brow protected by the broad rim of his straw hat, and he smiled. “I trust you.”

Sanji nodded, surprisingly touched by his captain’s trust, and retreated indoors.

“Chopper,” he said, knocking on the infirmary door.

The little reindeer was sitting at his desk rolling clean bandages. Across the room, lying as still and lifeless as he had been a week ago, was Zoro. His skin was as pale as the white linens that wrapped his body from forehead to wrists to hips, leaving only his grey face on display. It was strange to see the man so covered, since Sanji— _everyone_ —was more used to seeing him half-naked while training or sleeping or fighting or… well, almost anything. If Sanji counted correctly, then Zoro had exactly two shirts that actually closed, and one of them had recently been cut to ribbons. Just the same, it was strange to see Zoro without his three swords, which were propped up against Chopper’s desk, or to see him without that filthy bandana tied around his bicep or head. Sanji had found that bloody bandana on the ground and put it into the pocket of his best suit jacket. And he didn’t know why. Not why he had done it, or why it was still there.

“Sanji?” said Chopper.

Sanji put a cigarette between his lips and lit it. “How’s the _marimo_?” he asked.

Chopper’s big, black eyes were as tired as Nami’s. “I’ve gone through almost all of the clean bandages I have, because he won’t stop bleeding.”

Sanji nodded. He knew what was beneath those bandages. He and Chopper and no one else. He suspected that other crewmates knew what had happened on Thriller Bark, but no one else had _seen_ it.

No one else had nightmares about it.

“I have to start rationing our food,” Sanji said, “so tell me when he wakes up. And here, give me those,” he added, gesturing to the basket of bloody linens. “I’ll put them in the laundry.”

“Thanks, Sanji,” said Chopper gratefully. “And I will. Tell you when Zoro wakes up.”

“It’s just so I can calculate his portions,” Sanji said, taking the basket with a shrug. “Better for the rest of us if he stays unconscious. Not like he’s much use either way, just wasted calories. I’ll get these bandages washed and send them back.”

“Sure, Sanji,” said Chopper, smiling.

* * *

One meal a day. Sanji had to keep his _nakama_ strong and healthy on one meal a day.

He set to work.

“I’m sorry, Brook,” he apologized to himself, scratching the musician’s name off his list. Then, beside their resident cyborg’s name, he wrote: _Cola_. Franky would need a small supplement of food, but nowhere near as much as a human-being _without_ mechanical parts. A mere fraction of his current meal size would do, as long as there was cola to fuel him.

 _Six bottles in the fridge plus the three currently stored inside him makes nine_. “Shit,” Sanji cursed. A couple more _coup de vent_ blasts and the cyborg would be empty. Sanji would have to tell him to focus strictly on his job as a shipwright and not on defense, because if Franky’s body shut down, who would repair the Sunny? In such dangerous waters, he was too valuable a crewmate to lose.

So, who _could_ they lose—hypothetically-speaking? Who wasn’t needed to build or heal or navigate?

Luffy. But without someone to protect the Sunny she was as good as shipwrecked. Luffy needed to maintain his strength just as much as Usopp, whose ingenuity and amateur carpentry was necessary—especially if Franky _did_ shut down; and Chopper, who was _literally_ keeping them all alive; and Nami, who was their only hope of finding their way out of the maelstrom that had trapped them. Briefly, he considered Robin’s role, but immediately shook his head. Robin’s knowledge of the world was invaluable, and she was the only one who could assist Nami. Which only left—

 _Zoro_.

Sanji bit his lip.

Zoro was not a builder or healer or navigator. Hell, the man couldn’t even do his own laundry! He never did chores, never volunteered his assistance to anyone who didn’t directly ask. He slept during the day, and kept watch in the crow’s nest at night. His time was his own and, until there was an island to explore or an enemy to fight, he did his own thing and kept to himself. The shitty swordsman wasn’t _needed_ on the ship. And there was nothing he could do that Sanji couldn’t do, too. _Better_. Besides, he wasn’t eating at the moment anyway, being unconscious and all.

Sanji hated to deny anyone food. He hated to see anyone go hungry. It went against everything he believed in as a cook, everything he valued as a person. But right now it was needed. It was _necessary_. In order to keep all of the necessary cogs turning, one of them had to stop.

His pen hovered indecisively over Zoro’s name, ready to score it out; ready to cut his rations and redistribute the food amongst the others who needed it. Zoro didn’t need it. Zoro was strong—right?

Sanji made the hard choice that wasn’t hard at all in the end.

* * *

**LATER**

Sanji was standing at the galley sink, submerged to his elbows in warm, pink water. He couldn’t wash Zoro’s bloody bandages with the rest of the laundry, of course, which meant he had to scrub them by hand. First he soaked them in a solution of vinegar and baking soda, then rinsed each long, sullied strip in the sink, watching the stains lift with ease. A part of him resented using food supplies to clean the linen, but a bigger part couldn’t let his crewmate be bandaged with unsanitary rags. So, he scrubbed. Late into a dark, rainy night while everyone else was sleeping, and after he had done the regular breakfast prep—albeit, rationed—he scrubbed. Scrubbed to keep that damn, idiot swordsman clean, because he certainly couldn’t be trusted with his own personal hygiene, and that was a fact. How sweaty, bruised and bleeding, one-shower-a-week Zoro had not yet fallen ill on their adventure through the Grand Line, Sanji didn’t know.

_Must be some meditative_ , bushido _shit_ , he thought, scrubbing furiously. _Or_ , _maybe he really is an animal. Dogs don’t catch colds._

 _Stupid loyal dog_ , _getting yourself all torn up for your master_. _Your_ nakama _. You don’t think_ , _do you_? _You never fucking think. Think about me_ , _who_ _has to wash your disgusting bandages. Or_ , _think about everyone else_ _who is worried about you. They’re all so fucking worried_ , _you inconsiderate bastard. You’re such a damn idiot._

“Idiot,” he muttered, scrubbing until his fingers were raw; scrubbing until his cuticles bled. “Fucking idiot.”

“Who?”

Sanji stiffened. An icy chill ran down his spine and his cigarette fell from his mouth into the water. “What do you want, _marimo_?”

He felt Zoro rather than saw him. The man’s body burned with a predatory heat as he stepped into the galley, making the room feel smaller. He heard the deliberate click of the swordsman’s boot heels, felt the deep, hot exhale of his breath. His own hands trembled in the water, but he fought to keep his voice firm.

“Get out of my kitchen.”

Zoro’s voice was raw. It rattled in his chest. “Look at me,” he said.

Sanji swallowed, squeezed his eyes shut. “You’re getting blood all over my kitchen. _Get out_.”

Zoro’s hands closed around Sanji’s biceps and squeezed, then jerked him around so that they were standing face-to-face. “ _Look at me_ ,” Zoro growled. “ _Look at what happened._ ”

_Nothing_ , Sanji thought, his heart pounding. _Nothing happened._ _Nothing—_

“It should’ve been you.”

Sanji gasped and opened his eyes and saw, for the hundredth time, Zoro’s mangled body. He saw the man’s bloodshot eyes and tightly-pursed lips, his muscles tense, his nerves trembling in pain. He saw the swordsman just as he had been on the morning they left Thriller Bark, when Sanji found him covered in blood, _dripping_ in his own blood that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere. _Nothing happened_ , he had said, and then collapsed like the dead man he should have been. The dead man he still _could_ be if he didn’t wake up.

 _Wake up_! _Wake up_! Sanji begged, for Zoro and for himself. He didn’t want to see it again. He didn’t want to relive it.

“It should’ve been _you_!” Zoro snarled, shaking him. “ _You_ should be the one bandaged and dying! _You_ should be the one to sacrifice yourself for Luffy! You owe him, just like you owe Zeff! Just like you owe—”

“Stop it! Please, g-g-go away!” He was too afraid to kick Zoro. Too afraid to touch him at all. “Please, go—”

“ _It was supposed to be you who died_!”

“ _I know_!” Sanji screamed. “ _I know_!”

* * *

Sanji woke with a violent start. His heart was pounding madly and he was covered in a cold sweat. His pillow was wet with tears.


	3. Two

**SANJI**

**DAY TEN**

Sanji was peeling potatoes, trying to decide how best to prepare the thick peels as well as the flesh, when he heard Nami’s shout, calling them all to prepare for yet another oncoming storm.

They had all been assigned stations in order to protect the ship and each other from the wind and rocks and sea. Sanji’s post was aloft the masts, and his job was to secure the sails and _keep_ them secure. If need be, he could help to defend the Sunny from his high vantage, flexible as he was, but his main priority was to keep the ship from capsizing. Franky would keep the Sunny balanced from below, and Sanji would do his utmost from above. He could also communicate with Usopp, who secured himself in the crow’s nest and put his keen sniper’s eyes to work as a lookout. When the Sunny did encounter danger—sucked into a whirlpool or set on a collision course with rocks—Luffy sprang up to divert her or destroy the threat. Nami navigated with Robin beside her, using her _Hana Hana no Mi_ to singlehandedly man the helm, and Brook assisted wherever he could, usually alongside Luffy. Chopper refused to leave Zoro and tended to anyone else who got hurt.

Sanji gathered the precious potatoes and secured them in the fridge, then put away his knife, lit a cigarette, and went on-deck to meet the storm.

It raged for hours.

By the time it quieted, they were all soaked and cold to the bone. Luffy and Brook were especially exhausted, which concerned Sanji. Luffy might be feeling weak and tired from the food rationing, but Brook didn’t need to eat or sleep. And Robin’s hands had slipped from eight to four back to two as the battle progressed.

_Something else is wrong_ , he guessed, climbing down from the mast.

On-deck, he patted his breast-pocket in search of his cigarettes, and so he wasn’t prepared for a gust of wind to catch the boom. Franky had let go of it in the calm, and, unsecured, it swung unexpectedly around.

“ _Sanji_ , _look out_!” Usopp shouted.

Sanji turned just in time to see a hand grab the heavy boom, stopping it inches from smashing into his face. His eyes went wide.

“Z-Zoro,” he said, shocked.

“ _Zoro_!” burst Luffy happily. He pushed himself to his feet with effort. “You’re awake!”

Zoro let go of the boom and turned away from Sanji to endure Chopper’s fussing. (“Zoro, you shouldn’t be up and moving around! Your wounds are going to re-open! You need to rest!”) Sanji saw the man’s bandages darken with blood, but didn’t comment on it. Instead, he lit another cigarette and willed his heart to stop pounding.

* * *

**LATER**

What’s that?”

Sanji frowned at Zoro, who was doing one-handed push-ups in the crow’s nest.

“It’s your supper,” he said, putting it down. “Does Chopper know you’re up here?”

Zoro didn’t answer. He caught the towel Sanji threw at him and wiped the sweat from his face. His pallor was still sickly pale and his chest heaved with effort, straining the soiled linen bandaging his middle, and making his deep breaths rasp like an old engine.

“What _is_ it?” Zoro asked, peering at his meal.

“It’s a potato.”

Zoro stared down at it. “It doesn’t look like a potato.”

“That’s because I’m a culinary artist,” said Sanji nonchalantly. “Just shut up and eat it. It’s all you’re getting.”

“Saké?”

“Water,” Sanji corrected. With the constant rainfall, water was the one thing they didn’t have to worry about.

Zoro grunted in disappointment and sat down to eat. Sanji left him to it.

“Zoro? Zoro—? Oh, Sanji!” huffed Chopper, meeting him on-deck. He bent over to catch his breath, looking uncommonly drained.

“What is it, my little _emergency food supply_?” Sanji teased.

Chopper glared up at him, unimpressed. “Is Zoro in the crow’s nest? He is, isn’t he? _Argh_! That idiot!

“ _Zo-ro_ , _no_! _You should be in bed_!”

Sanji chuckled at the swordsman’s long-suffering groan and walked back to the galley—

“ _Ah_!”

He trod on something in the dark, and only when the _something_ whined did he realize it was a rubber-boy. 

“Luffy? What are you doing?”

“ _Sleepy_ ,” Luffy mumbled, lying limp as an overcooked noddle on the deck.

“Well, sleep in your hammock,” Sanji reprimanded. He took Luffy’s hand to help him stand up, but the boy’s arm sagged into a bow. “Luffy?”

“ _Sleepy_ …” he said again, only half-conscious.

“Chopper!” Sanji called. “Could you come here? I think something’s wrong!”

* * *

**DAY FOURTEEN**

Sanji doubled Luffy’s ration, but it did him no good. He was sleepy and sluggish and had to be rescued twice before he fell overboard.

Zoro took over primary defense of the ship.

* * *

**DAY SIXTEEN**

Robin fainted in the aquarium bar.

Franky carried her to the infirmary only to find Chopper asleep at his desk, the recipe for a new Rumble Ball half-written beneath his head. It was for revitalization, a steroid to combat drowsiness and intense fatigue.

Franky carried them both to their respective quarters and put them to bed.

* * *

Later that evening, Nami found Brook in her tangerine grove, lying motionless beneath the fruitless branches.

He, too, was put safely to bed.

* * *

**DAY TWENTY**

Luffy held on for as long as he could, but his body was weak and the powers of his _Gomu Gomu no Mi_ were null. The day he stopped taking an interest in anything around him, even food, was the day he finally faded, and the day Sanji begin to truly panic.

He watched Zoro lift Luffy into his hammock, watched their captain’s hand hang lifelessly over the side. His eyelids fluttered, but he didn’t wake. None of them did.

Like his fellow Devil Fruit users, Luffy was completely devoid of energy.

* * *

**DAY TWENTY-ONE**

It’s seastone,” said Nami with dark circles under her eyes. She pointed at the massive rocks. “It has to be. I think we’ve found an old, forgotten seastone cache, which means that this _is_ an island. Kind of. If the Marines used this place as a seastone quarry, then there must be a landmass somewhere, even a small one.”

“ _Here_?” Usopp gaped. “The Marines had a base _here_? In _this_?” He pointed into the distance, where the water was swirling upward into an angry cyclone.

“If it’s an island,” said Sanji, savouring his very last cigarette, “then that’s why the Log Pose isn’t working. It hasn’t reset yet.”

“Exactly,” Nami agreed. “And there’s no knowing when it will.”

A tense silence fell over the galley. From his place leaning against the counter, Sanji looked at his crewmates, who sat around the table. Nami’s lovely face was hollow-cheeked and shadowed with fatigue, Usopp wore a drooping and downtrodden expression, Franky was abnormally quiet and still, and Zoro looked like he always did—as stern and unbending as a steel girder. It was he who spoke:

“We can’t stay here and wait.”

“No shit,” Sanji spat.

Zoro ignored him. To Nami, he said: “Choose a direction.”

“Zoro, I can’t.”

“Choose a direction and I’ll cut us out of here. I’ll cut a path through the rocks.”

“You can’t cut seastone—”

“I can fucking try—”

“Hey!” Sanji snapped, standing up straight. “Don’t talk to Nami-san that way, moss-head!”

“Shut up, shit-cook!”

“Guys, please don’t fight,” said Usopp meekly.

“It’s not as simple as _choosing a direction_ ,” Nami put in. “If navigating the Grand Line was that easy—”

“I’ll cut through the Grand Line if I have to!” Zoro said, slamming his hand down on the table. “We can’t stay here and let them rot!”

“Zoro-bro—”

“Luffy and the others won’t—”

“You’re such a fucking idiot!” Sanji yelled, interrupting Franky and Usopp. Suddenly, he was livid. “Look at you, you can barely even stand, shit swordsman! What is it you think you can do? You’re going to get yourself killed!”

“ _I’m not going to let my_ nakama _die here_!” Zoro roared.

That said, he shoved away from the table and left the galley, his boot heels stomping. There was a moment of hesitance before the others slowly followed suit, each one with a promise to do his or her best to find a solution. Sanji stayed behind to prepare the evening’s meal, though _meal_ was a gross overstatement. It was just canned beans, now.

He was still fuming as he grabbed the can-opener and the half-a-dozen spices he had left. He was so angry at the situation, and, now that Zoro was awake, he finally had a target for that anger. He could finally release all of the pent-up fear and resentment he felt on someone who could take it, the only person aboard who would fight back.

Except, Zoro _couldn’t_ fight back. Not now. Not when his insides bled every time he had to defend the Sunny from storms and there was no Chopper to doctor him. Sanji could yell at him, but they couldn’t fight like they usually did, and knowing that made him even angrier.

_Ah_! _Why is this happening to us_? He grit his teeth, clenched his hands.

His stomach growled loudly, painfully, but he ignored it.

_We can’t stay here and let them rot_! Zoro had said, his eyes hard and his blood burning hot. Not an eloquent man, but not a liar either. An honest _marimo_ , if not always a logical one.

Is that what was happening to their unconscious crewmates? Would the seastone squeeze the life out of them if exposed to it for too long? Or, would they starve to death first?

Would they _all_ starve to death? Would they all rot from the inside-out?

Sanji bit his lip until he tasted blood, willing himself not to cry, but it was hard. It was _his_ job to keep them fed, after all. It was _he_ whom they were trusting now with their lives, and he was failing them. Failing at the one thing he had always promised to do.

_What do I do_?

He thought of his precious crewmates succumbing to the unparalleled pain of starvation. He thought of Zeff and the Baratie and the promises he had made, the debts he still owed. He thought of everyone’s dreams and how it would be _his_ fault if they didn’t make it, now. There would be no pirate king’s crew without a pirate king. There would be no pirate king without a crew. No world’s most wonderful ship, no mysteries solved, no brave warriors of the sea, no map of the world, no world’s greatest swordsman. Not if they all died here. Not if they starved because their cook couldn’t feed them, couldn’t do _the one thing_ he was meant to.

_Goddamn it_ , _what do I do_?

Sanji didn’t realize he was crying until tears fell into the beans.

His hands shook as he wiped his face. His hands shook always, now, though he hid the tremors as best as he could.

He took the spices and seasoned the beans to the best of his ability, adding as many calories to the meager meal as he could. He wasted nothing, not the peels or strings or juice.

He had to believe in the others, in Nami, Franky, and Usopp; and he had to trust that Luffy, Robin, Chopper, and Brook could endure just a little bit longer. They had all been in worse situations before—right? They were strong. They had to be, even if this wasn’t an enemy they could face. They _had_ to endure it. Because if the Sunny didn’t escape and if their power-wielding _nakama_ didn’t recover, then the idiot swordsman was going to kill himself trying to cut their way out, and that was something Sanji couldn’t watch.

Not again.

Taking a deep breath, Sanji divided the meal into four uneven portions, plated them prettily on the wooden dishes Franky had made, and then stepped out into the rain to serve his remaining crewmates their supper.


	4. Three

**ZORO**

**DAY TWENTY-FOUR**

Zoro ate half of his meal in two large bites, then got up from the table.

“The hell are you doing?” said the cook predictably. “Don’t you dare leave food on your plate.”

Zoro put his hands in his pockets and headed for the door. “Give it to someone else—” he began, only to find Sanji’s long, slender leg stretched up across the doorway, blocking his path.

“Finish. Your. Meal,” he said through his teeth.

“ _Give it_ ,” said Zoro, just as threateningly as he wrapped a hand around the cook’s ankle, “ _to someone else_.”

He pushed down on Sanji’s leg, but the cook expected it. He bent his body backwards, curling his spine until his hands were flat on the floor, then swung his free leg around to kick Zoro’s head. Zoro didn’t draw a sword. Instead, he thrust up his arm and blocked the attack. He grabbed Sanji’s ankle, and, now holding both of his legs in a firm grip, lifted the skinny blonde into the air and slammed him down away from the door. Sanji gasped sharply at the impact, then coughed.

“You’ve been giving me more food than the others. Don’t,” said Zoro, glaring down at him.

“You—” _cough cough_ “—you’re a big brute and you’re—” _cough cough_ “—you’re badly injured, you idiot! You need to eat to heal!”

“ _Don’t_ ,” Zoro repeated seriously. “I don’t need it. The others do. Give my rations to them.”

“Don’t tell me how to do my job!” Sanji spat, trying and failing to rise. “You have no idea what I—”

“It’s _your_ job to keep them fed,” Zoro growled, leaning down over him. “ _I’m_ fine. Don’t worry about me, I can take care of myself.”

“ _Worry about you_? Ha! As if I would!”

Zoro grabbed Sanji’s shirtfront and pulled him up until they were nearly nose-to-nose. So close, he could see himself reflected in the cook’s eyes; could feel the rise and fall of fast breaths. In a deep, quiet voice, he said: “ _Good_.”

When Sanji didn’t reply, Zoro stood and left the galley, knowing it shouldn’t have been that easy.

Fighting Sanji should never be _easy._

* * *

Day-by-day, Zoro watched the cook.

He watched Sanji run across the decks and up the masts as the sea surged and swelled. He watched his agile body and long limbs move like the crack of a whip, looking like a spectre in the bright, white lightning that lit the sky. Looking like a skeleton the way his bones pushed against his pale, paper-thin skin, the way the shadows deepened the contours of his face. He watched Sanji grow thinner and less substantial every day; saw the joints of each long finger and the bruises that encircled his feverish eyes. When the wind tore at Sanji’s clothes, pulling his shirt up, pulling off a button, it exposed his sunken stomach and protruding ribs, and he shivered.

Zoro saw him shiver a lot, now.

But Sanji didn’t complain. He layered his clothes, wearing his royal-blue hoodie always, and went about his business. He kept the ship clean, and did the laundry, and spent hours pouring over his recipes and obsessively taking an inventory of his diminished stores. He brewed tea to keep Nami and Usopp warm if not full, and he made vegetable broth every day and painstakingly fed it to their unconscious crewmates. It was a slow process, spooning broth into their unresponsive mouths, but he did it gently and patiently, no matter how long it took. His hands trembled when they were vacant, when he had nothing to do and no one to feed. He told them it was nicotine withdrawal, but no one believed him. He was only himself when he was working, when he was _caring._

Zoro didn’t see him eat, and he barely saw him sleep, always brief and restless.

Two weeks, then three.

Nami fainted and Sanji carried her to her quarters, and Franky brought her a cola to revive her, and Usopp brought her winter coat to keep her warm.

“Please, Nami-san,” Sanji said, on his knees at her bedside, holding her hand between both of his. “We can’t lose you. You’re our navigator. You’re our only hope.”

He helped her drink the cola while Usopp and Franky hovered anxiously. Zoro watched from the doorframe.

“Give her my rations,” he told Sanji later.

Wordlessly, Sanji nodded.

* * *

**DAY TWENTY-FIVE**

The Log Pose,” Nami said from her bed, where she worked. She barely left it, now. There were charts and navigational tools spread out across the blankets and hot tea on the table, smelling weakly of medicinal herbs. “It’ll reset soon, it _has_ to. Then we’ll know the way.”

Zoro grunted. His stomach growled, but he didn’t flinch and neither did Nami. They had all stopped trying to hide their hunger from each other long ago.

“The rocks move,” he said, crossing his arms.

He was, of course, referring to their last desperate attempt to navigate the seastone labyrinth, which seemed endless. Not Usopp’s sniper eyes nor Nami’s spyglass could see the open sea beyond the thrashing quarry. Zoro was convinced that the seastones moved, and that was why they couldn’t find their way out, but Nami had dismissed him with a tired sigh, and Sanji had called him an _directionless idiot_. (“Head west,” Zoro had ordered Franky, who now manned the helm, only to have Usopp gently redirect his outstretched arm. “West is that way, Zoro,” he said.)

“It’s no use,” said Nami, now. She looked so small in her bed, fragile as a china doll. “I’ll keep trying, I’m not giving up, but—”

“ _Storm_!” Usopp hollered from outside.

Zoro took off without a backward glance, drawing _Sandai Kitetsu_ and _Shusui_ as he did.

He passed Sanji, who climbed up the main mast—much slower than usual—and positioned himself on the lawn below, ready to defend the ship.

“ _Incoming_!” Usopp yelled from his perch.

The rain was blinding and the thunder deafening, but Zoro didn’t let it encumber him. If he concentrated, he could feel the storm’s _breath_ , it’s energy, and sense where the attacks would come from, predict how they would land and knew that he could endure them. He knew that he could take the blows so the Sunny wouldn’t have to. His body was wounded, but it was strong. When the ship was pulled sideways toward the rocks, Zoro leapt onto the bulkhead with faithful _Wado Ichimonji_ between his teeth.

“ _Hyakuhachi Pound Ho_!” he yelled, thrusting forth a powerful, compressed blast. It didn’t even damage the seastone—he clicked his tongue in annoyance—but the _whoosh_ of backlash propelled Sunny in the opposite direction, avoiding a collision. He ran from port to starboard and repeated the technique at Usopp’s bidding.

“ _Pull left_!” screamed the sniper, gesturing madly for Franky to turn the wheel. “ _Zoro_ , _on the right_!”

“The RIGHT, _marimo_!”

Zoro barely heard Sanji’s voice beneath the wind, but he felt the cook’s shoe pelt him in the head and looked up to see Sanji pointing starboard.

They continued like that for a long time, until the storm finally calmed.

“It’s amazing you can tell up from down, moss-head,” said Sanji in exasperation as he descended the mast. “I don’t even—”

He stopped.

Usopp gasped.

“Zoro-bro,” said Franky worriedly, “did you get hit?”

Zoro stared at them, confused. Then he looked down at himself. _Oh_ , he thought, seeing the blood. It was _a lot_ of blood, soaked right through his bandages, and that’s when he realized that his stitches had torn and that he was, in fact, in a great deal of pain.

“ _Idiot_ ,” Sanji muttered, fingers flexing for a cigarette he didn’t have. “Infirmary, _now_!” he ordered, pointing.

* * *

_Ow_ —! You’re a shitty fucking doctor, you know that?”

Sanji tossed the last of the old, blood-soaked bandages into a basket and glared at Zoro. “Well, maybe that’s because I’m _not_ a doctor. I’m a _cook_. Now, hold still.”

Despite his brashness, he approached slowly and put his hands on the swordsman with a tentativeness that betrayed nerves. “I have no idea what I’m doing,” he said honestly as he dabbed Zoro’s wounds with a clean, wet cloth.

Half-a-dozen quips leapt into Zoro’s head, but he bit his tongue. Sanji might’ve been nervous to doctor Zoro, but Zoro found himself relaxing under the cook’s careful hands. They were nice hands, if he was being honest. A little bony, but very deft. And surprisingly soft. He would’ve expected callused fingertips, or scars from cuts and burns, but the cook’s long hands were the tools of his trade, cared for with love, and as smooth and cold as glass. _That_ , he knew, wasn’t normal. He had felt the other man’s touch on occasion—usually when they sparred—and knew it to be warm, like cookies fresh from the oven. The chill in them now was a result of malnutrition, just like the pallor of his fair skin and the sunken shadows under his blue, blue eyes.

“God, how do you get so filthy?” Sanji muttered, dragging the damp cloth over Zoro’s shoulders and back. He paused to push his hoodie sleeves up to his elbows again, because they kept falling down. “It’s _raining_ outside. That’s, like, a constant shower.

“What?” he asked, frowning now.

That’s when Zoro realized he was smiling, that he had been _chuckling_ at the cook’s annoyed commentary.

“Nothing,” he said quickly, turning his face away. “Just hurry up before I bleed to death.”

“And whose fault would that be?” Sanji retorted.

Rather than wait for an answer, he traded the cloth for a sterilized needle and surgical thread. Then he said: “Lie down. And try not to move.”

Zoro obeyed, lifting his arms to expose the expanse of his injured chest. He rested them overhead and closed his eyes, feigning disinterest, as if he was about to take a nap, though he shivered a little at Sanji’s nervous touch. He could feel the man’s fingers press against the flaps of his torn skin, gritty where a white powder solution had been applied to clot the bleeding. He heard Sanji’s deep, slow intake of breath and his even slower exhale. He imagined the other man’s lips pursed and his brow creased in concentration as he bent low over Zoro’s torso, the miniscule needle pinched between his forefinger and thumb. When the sharp tip pierced Zoro’s flesh, Sanji flinched as much as he did.

“S-Sorry—”

“Calm down,” said Zoro evenly, ashamed of himself for flinching. It hurt. Of course it did. But he didn’t want the cook to know that.

“Okay,” Sanji said, more to himself. He placed his left hand on Zoro’s chest to anchor himself, then began to stitch again with his right.

They were both right: Sanji was not a doctor and he was, in fact, quite _fucking shit_ at stitching. In retrospect, it _should_ be Usopp doing the intricate work. His keen sight, steady hands, and talent for tinkering made him an artist of technical craft. Sanji might be used to sharp tools, but his craft required him to kill things, not prepare them alive—not _keep_ them alive. And yet, Zoro didn’t want Usopp to see him like this, swordless and vulnerable and lying flat on his back in an infirmary bed. He didn’t want _anyone_ to see him like this, least of all his crewmates who depended on him. But Sanji… Sanji seeing him defenceless should have made him feel the worst, but he didn’t.

“You okay?” asked the cook, the barest quiver in his voice.

“I’m okay,” the swordsman replied honestly.

“Good. Now, turn over and I’ll do your side.”

It took longer than it should have to mend Zoro’s wounds. Sanji kept pausing to blink and shake his head. He was tired. They all were, but Sanji most of all, because he never seemed to stop moving. The stiches he made were not as neat or close as Chopper’s would have been, and his stitching, itself, was not painless, but eventually the messy job was done, and the cook-turned-surgeon breathed out a sigh of relief. All that was left to do was apply clean bandages.

Zoro sat up slowly, testing the stitches, which stung, but succeeded in holding his insides inside. When Sanji presented several meters of white linen, Zoro lifted his arms without a word and held them at his sides while the cook began to wind the cloth around him, pulling it tight.

It felt… intimate. It brought the two men into closer proximity than they had ever intentionally been outside of a fight, and Zoro found himself holding his breath. Sanji must have felt as equally awkward, because it was weirdly silent between them. The only sound came from the cook’s movements as he reached forward and back, and the quiet brush of linen as it was pulled taut. Zoro kept his eyes on the ceiling, but still he felt the soft whisper of Sanji’s blonde hair every time he leant slightly forward—then back. Forward, then back. Forward. Back. Until finally the bandages were secure.

“Done,” said the cook, retreating fast to begin cleaning up. He grabbed the basket of soiled bandages, resting it on his hip. “You can go,” he dismissed, gesturing to the door without looking.

Zoro stood. He saw the mess they had made and hesitated.

“Just go, I’ll clean it up,” said Sanji impatiently, still without lifting his head. “Go relieve Usopp from lookout duty. I’ll bring your supper later.”

Without a word, Zoro walked past him to the door. And as he did, he caught a glimpse of Sanji’s face beneath the veil of soft, blonde hair and saw that it was flushed a pretty, rosy red.


	5. Four

**SANJI**

**DAY TWENTY-SIX**

Sanji was carrying a trey of hot tea to his crewmates when he dropped it.

He didn’t trip or spook or need to defend himself; he just dropped the trey, because his hands were too weak—shaking too much—to hold the weight.

“ _Shit_!” he cursed, flinching back as steaming water splashed him, then fell to the deck and was washed away in the rain. Wasted.

“ _Shit_! _Shit_! _Shit_!” Quickly, he knelt and collected the trey and cups, hoping that no one had seen him fumble.

It was raining harder today and everyone was inside: Nami, in the women’s quarters, working and watching over Robin; Usopp and Franky in Usopp’s factory; and Zoro in the crow’s nest _not_ working-out (because if he was up there working-out, Sanji would kill him). He was supposed to be _resting_ —or, at the very least relaxing or meditating or doing whatever it was he did when he wasn’t training, drinking, or sleeping.

 _Ah_ , _sword maintenance_ , _that’s what he does_ , Sanji thought, entering the crow’s nest with a fresh cup of tea.

Zoro was sitting cross-legged on the floor with ‘problem-child’ _Sandai Kitetsu_ and Ryuma’s legendary _Shusui_ lying in front of him alongside a polishing cloth, and holding his precious, snow-white _Wado Ichimonji_ in his lap. He was running a whetstone methodically over _Wado_ ’s blade, slow and precise, and didn’t look up when Sanji entered.

 _He’s so focused_ , he thought, watching surreptitiously as he set down Zoro’s tea.

He knew that _Wado_ was the rare _meito_ blade of a master swordsmith, that it was one of only twenty-one in the whole world, and that it was a superior weapon meant for a superior swordsman. But he also knew that _Wado_ was more than just a weapon to Zoro. All of Zoro’s swords were more than just _weapons_ , but _Wado_ was special. Sanji had heard Zoro talk about earning his swords’ acknowledgement through training and meditation and following the ways of the _Santoryu_. When Zoro picked up a sword, he respected it, no matter its grade or fame, and Sanji had heard him criticize sword-wielders who didn’t. Sometimes Sanji thought that Zoro understood swords better than people—No, scratch that. Sanji _knew_ that Zoro _definitely_ understood swords better than people. But even so, _Wado_ was _more._

The _one thing_ Sanji was actually interested in—the tight-lipped swordsman’s past—and it was the _one_ sword-related thing he didn’t know.

 _Ugh_ , _why do I know all of this useless sword crap_? _I’ve been living with him for too long._

“You’re bleeding.”

“Huh?”

Sanji blinked. Zoro was looking up at him with one eyebrow raised. He tapped his own elbow in example.

“O-Oh,” said Sanji, covering his injury and backing away. “Right.”

“Are you—”

“ _Drink the tea_!” he called back, tripping down the ladder in his haste to escape the swordsman’s scrutiny and those sharp, steel-grey eyes.

Back in the galley, he scrubbed a hand through his hair in frustration. He didn’t need to see his reflection to know that he was blushing. Again. His pounding heart was evidence enough, and he didn’t know why. He didn’t know why, ever since he had dressed Zoro’s injuries, he couldn’t look the man in the eye. Couldn’t even get near the other man’s stoic presence without recalling his body: the sight of torn flesh, the smell of blood, the feel of burning skin and firm muscles…

Sanji swallowed, his heart racing.

It was as if he was _afraid_ of Zoro, now. Afraid of being too close to him—which was absolutely ridiculous! Of course he wasn’t afraid of the idiot swordsman! They were _nakama_ , after all! They were… still just _nakama_ … right?

 _What the actual fuck_?

“Sanji?”

“ _Ah_! Yes—?”

Usopp was standing in the doorframe, eyeing him in concern. “You’re bleeding—”

“Yeah, I know,” Sanji said, pulling down his sleeve. “Did you need something?”

“Nami wants to talk to you.”

“Oh, sure, of course,” he said in relief. Nami. He would focus on Nami. He could do that. “I’ll go right away.”

* * *

**ZORO**

Zoro stared at the tea, letting it go stone-cold.

Then he thought of how angry Sanji would be if he wasted it, so he drank it anyway.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he sighed.

He didn’t like feeling this way. It was a complicated feeling, and Roronoa Zoro did not like complicated feelings. He didn’t like that the shit-cook could disturb his meditation, that thoughts of him kept creeping in on time reserved for his training and his swords. Half of his crewmates were lying unconscious and the other half were scared and suffering, all of them were starving, and all of them might die. The _last_ thing he should be worried about was the cook and what the cook did and felt and thought. The cook was more than capable of taking care of himself—

Except, he wasn’t. Not right now. Not for nearly a month.

Black Leg Sanji of the infamous Baratie and fighting cook of the future pirate king did not just _fall down_ and hurt himself.

The Sanji that Zoro knew was an anal, irrational, condescending and obsessive dumbass… and quite possibly the most compassionate person he had ever met. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for someone in need, especially if that something involved food. And there was no one he wouldn’t sacrifice himself for if he thought it was worth it; if he thought that their life was worth more than his. Sanji’s heart was kind to its core, but his head was stupid, because he knew how to love and protect everyone except himself. He _cared_ about everyone except himself. And Zoro didn’t know why. The way Sanji valued and defended food reflected his feelings and history with it, but it was in the smaller, subtler things he did that revealed a darker experience he was trying to suppress. His need to feed everyone, take care of everyone, and his desperate thirst to prove himself went beyond heroism and humility, as if someone, somewhere, had told him—beaten into him—that he was not good enough. That he would never be good enough. And that he was completely and utterly worthless as a human-being.

Zoro didn’t know who or where that person was, but he hated him.

He hated the way Sanji flinched at certain words. Hated that he sometimes shied away from crowds. Hated that he cried in his sleep and sometimes woke up gasping and shaking, then left the men’s quarters as fast as he could so that no one would see or hear. Zoro had thought the nightmares stopped after a couple of months at sea aboard the _Going Merry_ , but last night he had heard it again, the painfully familiar sound of Sanji’s muffled sobs. Only this time, he had heard his own name:

“ _Zoro_ , _no… don’t do it…_ ”

_Don’t do what_?

Zoro shook his head. It didn’t matter. What mattered was the stupid shit-cook and the way that seeing him for a mere moment had made Zoro completely lose his focus.

_Self-destructive bastard_ , he thought, and decided then and there to confront him about it. A swordsman did not run from his troubles, after all. He faced them and defeated them.

“Hey, Cook!” he called, pushing into the galley. “Cook, you here?”

It only took a quick sweep of the clean room to confirm that Sanji was not there, so Zoro decided to wait. The cook would have to come back to make supper anyway, because—rain or shine, peril or party—Sanji served every meal on time.

Zoro felt too agitated—he was agitated, _not_ nervous—to sit at the table, so he paced, first in the dining area and then in the kitchen. Because everything was so pristine and _empty_ , he saw the notebook almost instantly. Normally, Zoro wouldn’t bother with other people’s business or belongings, but something about it being _Sanji_ ’s book made him want to peek. It was probably just full of recipes. Sanji had dozens of handwritten recipe books filled to bursting with his inventions and solutions. Zoro had often seen him smiling as he worked, ingredients and culinary tools littering the countertop as he made notes. He always looked so happy when he experimented, like he was playing, challenging himself to do better. It was something that Zoro understood—the need to surpass yourself every day—even if he didn’t understand anything else about cooking or the cook.

He hooked his index-finger into the book and flipped it open and saw a list.

Actually, it was multiple lists. The little book contained the inventory of the galley’s stores, which seemed to change daily. Sanji’s handwriting was small and neat and he recounted and re-recorded everything each day, making meticulous calculations for rationing.

_Is this really all we have_? _But it’s not enough. It hasn’t been enough for weeks_.

_What the hell have we been eating_?

Zoro saw in the notes how Sanji turned nothing into something, how he stuffed as many calories as possible into a single serving of food, using ingredients that Zoro didn’t even know were eatable. He saw preparation methods that swelled servings, so the diner felt like they were eating more. He saw how certain herbs and spices settled the stomach and curbed the hunger pangs that wracked them all. He read and realized how much effort Sanji put into the meals he made every single day, even when all he had to work with was canned beans, because it was for the crew, and there was nothing the dedicated cook wouldn’t do for his crew.

Zoro’s eyes lingered on a recipe especially made for him, which included a list of instructions two pages long. He thought of the deceptively simple meals he had been eating lately and was baffled that so many elements had gone into making it as hardy and healthy as possible. Sanji had even made it to Zoro’s taste, simulating all of his favourite flavours whenever he could. Salty instead of sweet; savory instead of smoked; clean and refreshing instead of heavy and dense.

Smiling a little, Zoro turned to the last page—and froze, the smile falling away.

It was another list, but not of food. Each Straw Hat’s name was written in a column that corresponded to the earliest lists of rationing, and beside each name was a number of stars that indicated how much each person required. It was a sad but logical list, for the most part. Some crewmembers simply needed more calories than others to survive, and in such dire circumstances, Zoro approved of Sanji’s pragmatism. Mostly. So it wasn’t the list, itself, that made his blood run suddenly cold. It was the fact that some names had been scratched out completely, as if those crewmembers weren’t going to get fed at all.

The list read as follows:

~~BROOK~~

FRANKY* – _Cola_

LUFFY***

NAMI**

USOPP**

CHOPPER**

ROBIN**

ZORO****

~~SANJI~~

* * *

**SANJI**

You’re amazing, Nami-swan! I knew you could do it!” Sanji praised, clasping his crewmate’s hand and rejoicing in her discovery.

She smiled wanly but honestly in reply. “It’s Robin whom we should be thanking. I finally found a reference to this place in one of her books. She was right, it’s a seastone quarry, and there’s a Marine base here underwater, though it’s been abandoned for decades. It was only mentioned as a footnote in one of her history books.”

In reflex, they both looked over at Robin’s bed, where the woman was submerged in a deep, unnatural sleep. If Sanji didn’t know better, he would mistake it for a peaceful slumber, since her dark, soft features looked so at ease, but the stiffness of her body revealed unconscious discomfort. The seastone was making her suffer, just like all of their other power-wielding crewmates.

“The Log Pose?” asked Sanji, refocusing his attention. He didn’t want to think about his friends wasting away (in more ways than one).

“Four days,” Nami reported. A tiny, grateful twinkle came back into her eyes. “It takes a full month for the Log Pose to reset from the base, which is just four more days. Then we can finally escape this stormy, seastone trap. Hopefully the Sunny can last that long.”

“She can,” Sanji said confidently. “She’s lasted this long, and we’re not going to give up now!”

He left the women’s quarters with a lighter heart and a spring in his step.

_Just four more days_ , he smiled, his determination refueled. All he had to do was keep the crew fed for four more days, then there would be a sea teeming with fish to catch and other, safer islands to explore.

Sanji was feeling much better about the Straw Hats’ fate when he entered the galley—

—and found Zoro holding, no— _reading_ his notebook.

“ _That’s mine_!” he burst, lunging across the room. He seized the notebook from Zoro’s unresisting hand and held it to his chest. “What the hell, moss-head? This is private!”

Zoro didn’t speak. Instead, he glared at Sanji with such intensity it made the cook take a reflexive step back.

“What are you doing in here?” he asked in accusation, but still Zoro glared at him. “Get out!” Sanji pointed to the door. “No one is allowed to be in here when I’m not—”

“You haven’t eaten,” said Zoro’s deep, angry voice. Sanji knew it was angry, because it was deadly calm. “You haven’t eaten _at all_.”

It was Sanji’s turn to stare silently, though he stared at the counter behind Zoro, shying from the man’s gaze and hating himself for doing so.

Zoro took a step forward. “You’ve calculated exactly what everyone needs to survive, but you’ve been giving all of _your_ rations to _me_.”

“ _Pft_!” spat Sanji anxiously. “And why the hell would I do that?”

“I don’t know,” said Zoro’s deadly-calm voice. “You tell me.”

Again, Sanji faltered. He opened his mouth to reply, then closed it again, tight. He kept his eyes firmly locked on the counter and the silver shine of the sink.

“Cook.”

Sanji tensed.

“Why have you been giving me more than everyone else?”

“Because,” Sanji said, swallowing the lump in his throat. “Because you need it, because you’re—”

“If you say _injured_ ,” Zoro warned, taking another step, “I’m going to pick you up and throw you overboard.”

“You _are_ injured!” Sanji snapped, finally raising his head in a furious passion. Zoro’s eyes were as dark as storm clouds, but this time Sanji glared back. “Or, have you forgotten, idiot? I know that the short-term memory of _marimos_ isn’t the same as a human’s, so let me remind you that you almost died a month ago. _Died_ , Zoro! I saw it! You might be able to fool everyone else with your tough-guy act, but not _me_ , because _I saw it_!”

Zoro seemed taken aback for a moment, then his jaw clenched. “I’m fine,” he said.

Sanji scoffed. “You’re not fucking fine. You haven’t had a single day to recover properly since we left Thriller Bark. Every day you’re not resting in bed, every day you even _move_ you’re courting death.”

“You’re being dramatic.”

“ _I’m_ being dramatic? No!” Sanji stabbed his finger at Zoro. “ _I’m_ not the one bleeding from every orifice on his body! _I’m_ not the one— _cough cough_ —who doesn’t take his doctor’s— _cough cough_ —advice! _I’m_ the one trying to— _cough_ —trying to keep you— _cough cough_ —alive— _cough cough cough—_ ”

“Cook?”

Zoro reached for him, but Sanji knocked his hands away.

It was the wrong thing to do.

Clutching his chest and gasping, Sanji’s body swayed and his legs collapsed. He fell against the dining table and hit the edge, hard. He felt weak and dizzy. For one terrifying moment, the whole world swam before his eyes. He squeezed them shut, and when he opened them again he was sitting in a chair with Zoro’s hands on his shoulders and the man’s stormy eyes glaring at him.

No, not glaring anymore.

 _Soft_ , thought his dizzy brain. _His eyes look soft now_ , _and worried_.

“Cook,” he said in an even, gentle tone reserved for Chopper and—sometimes—Luffy. “You’re starving.”

“ _We’re all starving_ ,” Sanji whispered ruefully in reply. His eyelids fluttered. He felt very tired.

“You’re starving _on purpose_.”

Sanji didn’t reply, he just stared dazedly into Zoro’s sculpted face. All of him was sculpted, it seemed. Why had Sanji never noticed that before? Or, maybe he had noticed and just never acknowledged it. It was hard to miss a body like Zoro’s when it walked around so shamelessly on display—

“ _Cook_ ,” Zoro said, shaking him a little, “don’t just go to sleep! You haven’t eaten for a month!”

“ _I’ve… gone… longer_ ,” Sanji said slowly, the words heavy on his tongue.

“Not like this, you haven’t.”

Sanji was about to tell Zoro that he didn’t _know_ that; that he couldn’t _prove_ it, because he hadn’t been there on that hellish, mushroom-shaped isle with he and Zeff. He was about to tell Zoro off for making assumptions about things he clearly didn’t understand, when suddenly the swordsman’s big, warm hands left his shoulders and a pitiful, embarrassing whimper fell from his mouth. He shivered in the cold, feeling it acutely after being so close to the heat of Zoro’s body. But soon that sculpted body returned, cupping the back of his head this time and forcing the mouth of a smooth glass bottle between his lips. A second later, he tasted cola.

“That’s— _cough cough_ —Franky’s,” he argued, but Zoro ignored him.

“Drink,” he said, and tipped the bottle further, so that Sanji had no choice but to swallow or waste the fizzy, life-giving beverage. He swallowed.

“Don’t hurl,” said Zoro when the bottle was half-empty.

Sanji frowned at him, then winced. He pressed his lips tightly together and tried to sit up straighter. When it was safe to do so, he opened his eyes again, which he couldn’t actually remember closing.

“Better?”

“No,” Sanji lied. “I’m fine,” he repeated insistently.

“Sure, that’s why you blacked-out and took an hour to drink half a bottle of cola.”

Zoro’s words were sarcastic, but his hand at the base of Sanji’s neck was warm and firm. He was about to bite back when he comprehended the man’s words.

“ _An hour_?” He glanced at the clock.

Zoro had been sitting with him for _an hour_?

“Nearly,” Zoro confirmed. “You drooled a bit, too.”

In reflex, Sanji wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “I missed supper!” he said, trying to rise, but Zoro’s hands were heavy.

“It won’t kill them to wait an extra ten minutes,” he said.

“Actually, it _might_. I need to—”

“Sit down. You need to rest.”

“Don’t patronize me, you hypocrite!” said Sanji, growing more and more annoyed the less effective his efforts were. He tried to get a leg up between them to push Zoro away, but when that failed he used his hands instead. He pressed his palms flat against Zoro’s chest and gave him a shove.

Zoro hissed through his teeth.

Sanji froze.

“Oh God, I’m—” _sorry_ , but he didn’t say it. Zoro’s glare warned him not to.

“ _Sit_ ,” he repeated darkly. “You’ve been running around day and night for a month without anything to eat. And you’re not sleeping well either,” he added, alluding to Sanji’s nightmares. “You’ve taken on extra chores that don’t need doing right now, always worrying and working when what you need the most is _rest_. You should be resting and meditating to conserve your energy, not wasting it on doing laundry.”

Sanji shook his head. “I have to keep busy,” he said, trying to wriggle out of Zoro’s grasp.

“Why?”

“I just _do_. Now, let me up—supper’s already late.”

“No. Tell me _why_ you have to keep busy. Tell me _why_ you don’t just take a break—”

“Because I don’t want to think about how hungry I am!” Sanji yelled. With a surge of adrenaline he was on his feet. His legs trembled, but held him upright; right up in Zoro’s face. “I have to keep myself busy,” he said, lifting his chin to challenge the swordsman, eye-to-eye, “because if I don’t, then it hurts, okay? It fucking _hurts_ how hungry I am! I need a distraction— _any_ distraction! Because if I don’t have something else to think about, I’ll—”

Sanji was cut off abruptly and violently by Zoro’s mouth crashing into his and kissing him with a fervor that took the cook completely by surprise.

Everything stopped. The hunger pangs, the pain in his head, even his erratic heartbeats seemed to fade away as Zoro’s lips pressed to his in a stolen kiss that ignited something between them. It wasn’t a gentle, shy first-kiss, nor a romantic brush of tender lips. It was the swordsman’s skin and teeth and heat against him, almost fighting him, in a single moment of impulsive passion that was gone just as quickly. Sanji wouldn’t even realize until later that Zoro’s hand had been warm on his face, holding his chin at an accessible angle; or that one of Zoro’s legs had slid between Sanji’s own when he leant forward. It wasn’t until later that he would remember the feel of Zoro’s nose bumping his, or the touch of surprisingly soft green hair, or that the man’s breath tasted of tealeaves.

It wouldn’t be until later, when he was lying awake in bed _still_ thinking about it, that Sanji would admit how good it had felt to be held and kissed, how _safe_ he felt in the arms of someone he trusted, or how much he wanted to feel it again.

It wouldn’t be until later, because the moment Zoro pulled away from him, Sanji slapped him.

Heart hammering and red in the face, Sanji watched as a small, satisfied smirk curled Zoro’s lips, as if he had just proven a point. Then, wordlessly, he left the galley.

Sanji’s right hand stung from the brief impact, which had left a faint pink glow on Zoro’s cheek. And, just like that, he was infuriated again. _Never_ had he used his hands to strike someone before, but _never_ had anyone taken him so much by surprise. The absolute last thing he had ever expected from his sword-wielding crewmate was a _kiss_. And even if he _had_ imagined it—maybe; just once—he had never imagined it would be like that.

_What the hell is that_ marimo _thinking_?

Zoro had certainly given Sanji a lot to think about. And that, Sanji realized an embarrassing moment later, was entirely the point.


	6. Five

**SANJI**

Sanji wrapped his arms around Zoro’s neck and pulled him into a kiss.

It was unlike when Zoro kissed him in the galley, taking instead of giving; giving Sanji no time to reply. This time, their lips came together in unison, each man angling his head and leaning into the other with care and tenderness. Zoro’s lips were firm and his mouth was hot. Sanji’s brushed like silk across the surface before parting his lips and taking Zoro’s tongue within. A gasp fell into a deep, satisfied hum of pleasure as Zoro urged him closer. His arms were wrapped around Sanji’s middle, his strong hands splayed over his back and hip. Sanji felt secure in Zoro’s embrace. It had been so long since anyone had held him, though no one had ever held him quite like _this_. He pushed himself against Zoro’s chest, pressing his pelvis to the other man’s groin. He slid his hand up the back of Zoro’s neck into his green hair and smiled into the swordsman’s lips. “ _Marimo_ ,” he breathed, teasing his fingers through the soft, short locks. A rumble rolled up Zoro’s throat; half-amused, half-aroused. He bent his head to Sanji’s neck and Sanji leant back obligingly, unable to quiet a moan when Zoro’s teeth grazed his skin. He wanted to bite the man back. He wanted to wrap his legs around Zoro’s waist, wanted Zoro to lift him up and—

The black hilt of _Shusui_ slammed into his middle, knocking the breath out of him.

Sanji gasped, his legs buckled. Eyes wide, he stumbled forward and grasped Zoro’s shoulder in a shaking fist. “ _Why you_ …” he said through grit teeth. Zoro didn’t reply. He was looking past Sanji at Kuma. He didn’t even flinch as Sanji’s body collapsed in on itself, his strength gone, his vision going blurry. He felt Zoro’s bicep beneath his hand, the bandana tied around his arm. He grabbed desperately at Zoro’s forearm, but it was feeble; a man grabbing at a lifeline before darkness swallowed him. The last thing he felt was fear.

Then, suddenly, he was awake again. His suit was torn, his body bruised, and his head ached, but otherwise he was fine. All of his crewmates seemed to be fine, including Luffy, who was bouncing around energetically in a circle of his disbelieving friends. Usopp, Chopper, Nami, Robin, Franky. Even the gentleman skeleton, Brook, was there, standing solemnly at attention. The only person missing was—

Sanji took off running.

“Where is that jerk?” he wondered as he navigated the rubble, searching for the errant swordsman. The last thing he remembered was Bartholomew Kuma looming over he and Zoro, the last two Straw Hats standing after the battle with Moria. He remembered mustering the last dregs of his strength and courage to protect his crew, ready to face death with his hands in his pockets and his head held high.

“Forget this _marimo_ swordsman,” he had said to Kuma. “Take my life instead!”

Kuma had merely stared at him. So did Zoro.

Sanji’s whole body was shaking, injured and exhausted, but he wouldn’t surrender his crew. He wouldn’t let Kuma take Luffy, or Zoro. _What will happen if you die_? he had scolded the swordsman. _What about your ambition_?

“What are you waiting for?” he said to Kuma, glaring in resolve. “Take my life… instead of his. I’m prepared to exchange my life for his!”

Kuma stared silently at him, but he didn’t refuse the bargain. He seemed to be considering it.

“Oi,” Sanji said to Zoro, formal in his resolve, “make sure to…” he swallowed, “say goodbye to everyone for me. Tell them I’m sorry, but they’ll have to look for a new cook.”

It was the most heartbreaking thing he had ever had to say.

_Please_ , he thought, feeling the well of messy emotion, _take care of them_ , _Zoro._ _And take care of yourself_. He couldn’t bear to think of what would happen to the crew in his absence, the bad and the good. It made his heart heavy with regret.

That’s when _Shusui_ ’s hilt slammed into him. That’s when Sanji’s world went dark.

_Please be okay_! _Please be alive_! he thought now, as he ran.

Finally, he spotted a lone figure amongst the rubble, his arms crossed, his back to Sanji.

“ _Phew_ , you scared me!” he called out, breathing a sigh of relief. He hurried over to his crewmate—

—and stopped.

Everything was red with blood.

Panic seized Sanji. “Where did all of this blood come from?! Hey, are you alive?!” He wanted to touch Zoro, to shake him, but his body was stiff with fear. “What happened here?!”

_Zoro—no_ , _please. Zoro._

“No…” Zoro’s voice was low and gravelly. Sanji heard the pain in it as he forced it out. “Nothing happened…!”

“ _Zoro_.” Sanji did touch him, then. Frightened, he reached out a trembling hand to his crewmate—his rival, his friend, his _nakama_ —his heart pounding harder than he had ever felt it. He barely brushed Zoro with his fingertips and the swordsman collapsed against him, feeling and smelling and looking like blood.

“Zoro? Zoro!” Sanji cried, but Zoro’s heartbeat stilled in his chest. “No—Zoro, please! Please don’t! Don’t go! Don’t die! You can’t die! _Zoro_ —!”

* * *

**DAY TWENTY-SEVEN**

_Zoro_ —!” Sanji gasped, pulling and grabbing. He wouldn’t let go. He _couldn’t_ let his crewmate go.

“ _Don’t—don’t die_! _Don’t die_! _Zo_ —”

“ _COOK_!”

Sanji’s eyes flew open. He was lying in his hammock, twisted in his blankets and covered in sweat. His hands were curled like claws in Zoro’s shirt, and the man, himself—the _real_ Zoro—was staring down at him in bewilderment, holding Sanji’s shoulders to prevent him from falling.

“ _Wh-Wha_ —?” Sanji blinked, coming back to himself as the nightmare receded. He was breathing hard. “What are you doing?”

Zoro gaped at him. “What am _I_ doing? You were screaming, Cook.”

Sanji felt an embarrassed blush creep across his face. The proximity to Zoro did nothing for his racing heart, but he didn’t want to let the man go, too afraid that _this_ was the dream; that Zoro really _had_ died in his arms.

“Cook,” said Zoro, gentler now, “you’re shaking.”

“A—n-nightmare.”

Zoro looked from Sanji’s face to his white-knuckled fists, twisted tightly in his unbuttoned shirt. Sanji’s body was stiff now; stiff with disbelief and fear, afraid to move or even breathe.

“Come here.”

Before Sanji could protest, Zoro pulled him easily from the hammock and lowered to the floor. The blanket came down with them, and then Sanji was wrapped in the blanket in Zoro’s arms, and he was hugging the swordsman as if his life depended on it. Sanji didn’t know if it was the sudden movement that broke him, yanking him back to reality, or the unexpected kindness from his stoic crewmate, the solid weight of him, but soon he was sobbing onto the man’s shoulder.

Zoro didn’t say anything and Sanji was grateful for it. He didn’t want words of reassurance or false promises. He just wanted the fact of Zoro’s warm body in his arms, his heart beating, his lungs breathing, and all of his blood inside where it belonged.

“Did... anyone hear me?” he asked after a while. The tears had stopped, but his face was still wet, and Zoro’s shirt was soaked.

“No. Franky and Usopp fell asleep in the factory, and Nami is asleep in her bed. Luffy and Chopper haven’t woken,” Zoro added needlessly, drawing attention to their catatonic crewmates lying motionless nearby.

It was a small relief that no one else had heard Sanji’s outburst, but a relief nonetheless.

“You’re on watch,” he said. It wasn’t a question, but Zoro nodded. Sanji felt it. “Up in the crow’s nest? Did I… scream that loud?”

The mere thought of him screaming for Zoro was embarrassing, but not nearly as much as the swordsman’s confession.

“No,” he said quietly—so quiet, Sanji barely heard. “I was in here… with you… checking on you.”

Sanji’s heart fluttered in his chest. He pulled back and looked into Zoro’s face, which was turned stubbornly aside.

“You were worried about me?” he asked.

Zoro’s jaw clenched and his neck and ears flushed. “No.”

Sanji’s lips pulled into a wide, irrational, hysterical smile. “ _You were worried about me_!” he laughed, leaning back in for another hug. Zoro grunted, but didn’t push him away. “You care about me,” Sanji teased, closing his eyes with a smile.

“You’re my _nakama_.”

The statement was so forthright, it took Sanji off-guard. He was expecting denial from Zoro, not agreement. It made him brave enough to softly ask:

“Do you kiss all of your _nakama_?”

A pause. Then: “No.”

The silence that settled around them was different than before, charged with a feeling Sanji couldn’t identify.

“I dreamt about you,” he admitted, glad for the dark. His cheek was pressed to Zoro’s shoulder again, facing away from him, but he felt the swordsman’s gaze on him, heavy as his hands.

“What was I doing?”

_Holding me. Kissing me. Biting me._

“You died,” Sanji said, voice thick with emotion. “I dreamt that you died at Thriller Bark.”

“I didn’t.”

“But you could have,” Sanji argued. He held Zoro tighter as tears filled his eyes once more. “A normal person _would_ have died.”

“I’m not a normal person. I’m going to be the greatest swordsman in the world.”

“I know, but—”

“I’m not going to die before that happens,” said Zoro fiercely. “I made a promise.”

Sanji cried quietly for a minute, rebuffed and reprimanded. Then, in a whisper, he said: “ _I was so scared_.”

Zoro didn’t reply with words. Instead, he cupped the back of Sanji’s head and pulled him closer. He felt the hard bone of Zoro’s jaw rest on his crown and shifted his own position so that he was curled beneath the swordsman’s chin.

“I was scared, too,” Zoro said after a while.

“Of Kuma?”

“No. Of you. Of—losing you. It’s my job to protect my _nakama_ and I’ve almost lost you twice now, Cook.”

If the first time was facing Kuma, Sanji briefly wondered what the second time was before remembering the whole crew’s current situation. If Zoro hadn’t found him and force-fed him cola…

“Eat something,” the man’s voice rumbled in his ear. “ _Please_.”

A single tear rolled down Sanji’s cheek. “I can’t,” he said in regret. “There’s nothing left now. It’s all gone.”

* * *

**ZORO**

**DAY TWENTY-EIGHT**

Zoro was asleep on the floor with Sanji curled against his side when he heard Usopp’s shout:

“ _Storm_!”

He cursed and leapt up, disturbing Sanji, who groaned meekly in protest. He grabbed his swords, but not his shirt, which was lying damp and discarded on the floor, then hastily pulled on his boots. He was supposed to have been on watch all night, yet he had let himself be distracted by Sanji. Again.

The cook made a drowsy murmur and his eyelids fluttered. “ _What’s going on_?” he slurred, trying and failing to rise. He was shaking again; from cold or weakness, Zoro couldn’t tell. Both, probably.

Zoro threw the blanket back over him, and ordered: “Stay here!” before running out the door.

“ _Port side_!” Usopp was shouting. “ _Port_! _Port_! Argh— _left_ , _Zoro_! LEFT!”

Zoro ran back-and-forth across the deck with his swords drawn, slicing and slashing at the sniper’s behest. It was raining hard, making the deck slippery, but the swordsman’s footing was deft from years of combat training. The ship rocked dangerously, but Franky’s arms were strong at the wheel. A moment later, Nami emerged. She fought her way toward Franky, yelling and pointing. “I found a map!” she was saying. “There’s a cove to the north-west! If we can get there it’ll shelter us from the storm! Zoro—six o’clock!”

“What?”

“Six o’clock!”

“Huh?”

“ _At your back_!” yelled Nami, Franky, and Usopp together.

* * *

**SANJI**

Stay here? _Stay here—_? Stupid _marimo_ ,” Sanji muttered, pushing himself to his knees, then his feet. He felt faint and his head was swimming, but he managed to stumble to the door. A blast of wind and rain hit him in the face and he raised his arms, but lost his footing. His shoes slid across the deck and he wind-milled his arms for balance.

_Okay_ , _this is fine_. _I can—I can climb the mast_ , _it’s fine._

Except, it wasn’t, because halfway up he fell. He tried to grab a handhold, but there was no strength in his hands and he skinned his forearms on the way down. A strangled gasp escaped him and he braced himself for impact, but, fortunately, one of his crewmates caught him—

“ _What the hell are you doing_?” Zoro yelled.

_Oh_ , _shit_.

“M’fine, gerroff,” Sanji shrugged.

“I told you to stay inside!”

“The fuck?” Sanji pushed his hands against Zoro’s face. “ _You_ don’t tell me what to do! _I_ tell me what to do!”

“ _What_?”

“What, _what_? Put me down!”

“You’re not making any sense!” Zoro snapped. “Go back inside!”

“Zoro!” called Usopp.

“ _Go to hell_!” Sanji argued, wriggling until Zoro dropped him.

“Sanji-bro!” said Franky.

“ _You did that on purpose_!”

“ _You told me to put you down_ , _so I did_!”

“ _Zoro_! _Sanji_ —”

“ _AAH_!”

A massive wave crashed down and Sanji whipped around in time to see Nami go flying toward the bulkhead.

“ _Nami-san_!”

He was moving before the words had even left his mouth. He raced across the deck in time to grab Nami’s hand, using the last of his strength to pull her to safety—

—then he fell overboard.

* * *

**ZORO**

Fuck,” said Zoro.

He leapt over the bulkhead into the churning water below.


	7. Six

**SANJI**

Sanji gasped, turned onto his side, and threw-up seawater. _A lot_ of seawater. A big, meaty hand pounded him on the back, rattling his ribs.

“Ok— _cough cough_ —Okay, I’m good, thanks.”

The pounding ceased, but Zoro’s hand stayed planted between Sanji’s shoulder-blades as the cook gasped in deep breaths of cool, wet air.

“Okay, so, that’s the second time you’ve put your mouth on mine,” he said when he could.

Zoro heaved a sigh of relief and sat back. “I thought you were dead.”

“Am I not?”

Sanji tried to lift his head, but couldn’t. A terrible dizziness overcame him and he collapsed back to the hard rock he was lying on. He blinked, trying to clear his vision before realizing that the world around him was covered in a thick, grey fog and that he and Zoro were trapped on a seastone rock in the middle of the sea.

“Where are we?” he croaked.

“Same place we’ve been for a month,” said Zoro, lifting Sanji unceremoniously under the arms and pulling him so that Sanji was braced against him, back to chest. Sanji’s head lolled weakly and landed on Zoro’s shoulder, his eyelids fluttering. “We’re just in the middle of it, now.”

“We’re going to die here, aren’t we? Oh God, I’m going to die stuck on a rock with _you_.”

“Shut up, Cook.”

Zoro’s arms locked firmly around Sanji’s middle, holding him upright. Sanji was going to protest until he felt the swordsman’s body-heat press through his soaked hoodie to his cold skin beneath. He couldn’t feel himself shiver anymore, but knew he must be. He couldn’t feel most of his wasted body at all, except for the pain in his head and the human warmth at his back. They stayed like that for a while, until Sanji’s exhaustion overwhelmed him. He breathed a shallow sigh and closed his eyes.

“Oi, don’t fall asleep,” Zoro jostled him.

_But I’m so tired. I’ve been tired for so long…_

“ _Oi_!”

This time, Zoro slapped his cheek with the back of his hand, big knuckles poking at Sanji’s hollow cheek. He whined and tried to turn his face away, pressing his forehead to Zoro’s neck.

“ _Stop it_ ,” he muttered.

“Don’t sleep. If you sleep, you die.”

Sanji exhaled, wet and slurred. “ _’m a die anyway_.”

“No, you’re not. The crew will find us.”

“ _Nami-san…_ ”

“Yeah, her,” Zoro confirmed, rolling his shoulder to dislodge Sanji. It provoked another petulant whine. “You want to see her again? Then don’t sleep. They’ll find us, just hold on.”

“ _I… I want to… cook… for… everyone…_ ”

“You will. Tell me what you’ll cook,” Zoro ordered. When Sanji didn’t reply, he tugged a lock of blonde hair. “Hey, tell me what you’ll cook for everyone.”

“ _Meat… for Luffy… roasted slow. Tangerine parfaits and sweet sandwiches for… the ladies. Fish for Usopp with… fresh lemon. Chocolate cake for Chopper. And hamburgers with fries for Franky. Curry for Brook_ … _but not too spicy. Black tea. Soufflé for dessert..._ ”

* * *

**ZORO**

Zoro wasn’t really listening as Sanji’s rasping voice talked about food. As long as he kept talking and didn’t drift off to sleep, Zoro didn’t care what he was saying about utensils, techniques, or ingredients—he didn’t even know half the words Sanji was murmuring. Zoro’s kitchen skills began and ended with the washing-up. The cook’s dialogue and recipe books were far beyond his comprehension, but he always looked happy when he was in the kitchen, and Zoro wanted him focused on something happy right then—not starving, or drowning, or freezing to death. Let Sanji monologue about baked custard while Zoro surveyed their surroundings and planned what to do.

There was nothing he _could_ do, except try to keep Sanji warm and awake, and that really frustrated him. He didn’t even know where they were, or how far away from the Sunny the currant had dragged them. He knew the crew would be searching for them, but they were unlikely to be spotted in such a dense fog. The Sunny could pass right by them in silence and no one would be any the wiser. Was it worth him shouting? Or, should he preserve what energy he had left? If another storm hit, Zoro would have to protect them, because Sanji couldn’t even protect himself in his current condition.

_You should’ve stayed in the goddamn cabin_ , he thought, angry in frustration. If Sanji had stayed safe in the cabin like Zoro had ordered, then neither of them would be marooned right now. It irked him how the cook couldn’t follow a simple order, instead barrelling out on-deck to get himself in trouble; making trouble for Zoro, who had to rescue his annoyingly chivalrous ass. Zoro had been handling it. The ship, the storms, the crew. He hadn’t needed Sanji’s help. He had needed Sanji in the cabin, _safe_. Sanji, who had voluntarily starved himself rather than take food away from his crew. The galley was his, after all. The pantry and cupboards and refrigerator were his. It would have been so easy for him to sneak an extra serving, an extra bite. He could have taken anything and no one would have known. He could have eaten and lied to the crew about the amount of food left, but he hadn’t. Because he was a _good_ cook. And it was a good cook who went hungry in order to feed his crew _._ A cook worthy of the pirate king’s _nakama_.

Zoro admired Sanji’s noble sacrifice as much as he hated him for it, because the one thing the idiot had failed to calculate was how much his crew would miss him if he was gone. How much they all needed him, and wanted him to stay. Did he really not know how important he was?

And now he was _dying_ in Zoro’s arms, and there was nothing Zoro could do about it. It didn’t matter how strong he was, or how many techniques he knew. The fact was, he couldn’t save Sanji. And it terrified him.

 _Why_? Zoro clenched his teeth, trying to keep his temper subdued. _Why did you have to be the fucking hero_ , _Cook_? (Sharing all the meat, Luffy would say.) _Why couldn’t you be just a little more selfish_? _Why did you have to fall overboard_ —

“And for you,” Sanji said, tapping Zoro’s chest to get his attention. His voice was barely more than a whisper.

Zoro looked down at him and saw the shadows on his face, the fever in his eyes. He saw Sanji’s long, delicate hands scraped and cut now—cut by his own paring knife, because his hands shook so violently: panic, starvation, withdrawal. It looked wrong to see such well cared for hands damaged. Zoro took Sanji’s hand on impulse and held it against his chest, but if Sanji noticed, he didn’t care. He was reciting a recipe:

“ _I’ll make you onigiri. Warm, not hot. Just a pinch of salt. Eight centimetres thick. Wrapped two-thirds in nori. Sprinkled with sesame seeds. Saké served at eight degrees. I’ll make it… because it’s your favourite_.”

Zoro swallowed, then nodded.

“Yeah, it is.”

“ _I know_ ,” said Sanji, soft and sleepy. His hand went limp in Zoro’s grasp, resting over his heart. “ _I know things about you._ ”

“Yeah?” asked Zoro. He reached up to shake Sanji, or to slap his cheek again, but instead he found his fingers brushing the side of Sanji’s cold face, pushing back damp hair to expose both curling eyebrows. Who else in the world had fucking eyebrows like that? No one, was Zoro’s guess. “What things?” he asked, gentler than intended.

Sanji sighed. “ _I know you hate sweet food. You like saké after a workout_ , _and before bed. You care more for swords than most people_ , _except kids. You like kids_ , _even though you pretend not to_. _You’re bad at pretending. Too honest._ ” The whisper of a smile curled Sanji’s lips. “ _You don’t sleep much at night_ , _because it makes you nervous. You sleep during the day_ , _when Luffy is awake_ , _because you trust him. Luffy is the only one you trust like that_ —”

“No, he’s not,” Zoro said, but didn’t elaborate.

Sanji either didn’t hear, or pretended not to.

“ _You like sunrise better than sunset_ , _like me. You value composure_ , _but can be pushed to bloodlust. You like to see your enemies bleed. And you always smell a little bit like steel._ ”

“Do I?”

“ _Mm hmm_ , _‘cause you don’t bathe as much as you should_ ,” Sanji murmured, a tease in his voice. “ _But your hair is still soft_ , _like a_ marimo.” He reached up and brushed his fingertips along the base of Zoro’s skull, tickling the back of his neck. He rubbed his fingers through the short strands of Zoro’s _soft_ hair and sighed. When next he spoke, it was more serious than before.

“ _You’re reckless_ , _but a loyal friend. You have scars… so many scars all over your body_ , _but none on your back_. _And sometimes… your voice… sounds like thunder_.

“ _I know things about you_ ,” he repeated, even fainter. “ _I know things… because I don’t hate you. I’ve never hated you_ , _you know._ ”

Zoro squeezed the hand he was holding. “I’ve never hated you, either,” he said.

“You’re a good cook,” he added, because Sanji had gone quiet.

Sanji turned his head, resting it more heavily against Zoro, and this time Zoro felt the small curl of lips on his skin. Sanji’s hands fell limply and his breathing was so shallow now that Zoro could barely feel it.

“ _Thanks_ , marimo… _Zoro_. _That means a lot._

“ _You’ll take care of them_ ,” he whispered; to Zoro or himself, the swordsman didn’t know. “ _I know you’ll take care of them... after I’m gone._ ”

“Cook, don’t. You’re not going anywhere,” said Zoro firmly. He shook Sanji, but Sanji didn’t move. “Who will feed us if you do?”

“ _I told you before… you’ll have to find… a new cook. I’m sorry for that. I’m sorry… for a lot of things. I don’t want this to be over yet_. _I want to stay… with you… all of you. But I can’t… keep… my… eyes… open… any… more…_ ”

“Cook? _Cook._ Hey!” Zoro shook Sanji harder. “Don’t close your eyes! Don’t go to sleep! Don’t—

_—leave me. Please_ , _don’t fucking leave me_.

“Cook,” he said, cupping the cook’s face and lifting it. “ _Sanji_.”

* * *

**SANJI**

Sanji felt the press of Zoro’s mouth against his. He couldn’t feel the chill of own his body, or the pounding in his head, or the pain in his empty stomach, but he felt Zoro’s lips, warm and firm.

_Am I drowning_? he thought, feeling everything in slow-motion, like _déjà vu_. _Didn’t this happen already_? _Didn’t he already pull me from the water_?

But no, this was different. Zoro wasn’t breathing life back into him, he was _kissing_ him. But for what? Why?

_Am I dying_? _I must be dying_ , Sanji concluded, because why else would the swordsman be kissing him?

It perplexed him for a moment. Then he panicked.

_I—I don’t want to die_!

_Zoro_! Sanji shouted; it rang in his head. _Zoro_ , _I don’t want to die_! _Please—_

_Please_! he begged, soundless. His lips formed the word against Zoro’s mouth. And then he was kissing Zoro back, moving his lips fervently against the swordsman’s in a desperate plea.

“ _Don’t go_ ,” he gasped, speaking into the heat of Zoro’s mouth. “ _I-I-I—I don’t want… to… die_!”

“Good,” said Zoro, kissing him harder, pulling him closer. “Good, don’t.”

Zoro lifted Sanji enough for Sanji to wrap his arms around Zoro’s neck, holding him as tightly as he could, which was not very tight at all, but he didn’t care. He wanted Zoro’s hands on his back and in his hair, holding him close and safe. He wanted his rival, comrade, friend— _nakama_ —to hold him and not let go.

Sanji thought he had cried all of his tears, but more rolled down his cheeks. “ _Don’t—let—go_ ,” he breathed between kisses.

“I won’t,” Zoro promised. Sanji felt the rough pads of Zoro’s thumbs on his face, wiping away his tears. “You kept me alive, now I’m returning the favour. You’re going to be okay, Cook. It’s okay. _We’re_ going to be okay.”

* * *

Two hours later, they _were_ okay.

The _Thousand Sunny_ emerged from the fog with Franky at the helm and Usopp at the bow.

“ _There_!” cried the sniper, to the relief of them all.

Sanji was only vaguely aware of the rescue. He heard his crewmates’ voices, but couldn’t comprehend their words. He felt when Zoro lifted him and carried him onto the ship, but barely tasted the last of Franky’s cola before he fainted. He awoke in the infirmary, not knowing how much time had passed. He opened his eyes and saw Nami, then Zoro. He felt Nami’s hand on his forehead and heard her gentle voice: “ _Just one more day_ , _Sanji-kun_.” He felt Zoro’s hand squeezing his, and then he was asleep again. He regained drowsy consciousness for brief intervals, but never full lucidity. He swallowed the fish-broth fed to him— _not enough salt_ —but forgot the taste the moment he fell back to sleep. He dreamt of cooking and kissing, and then of Zoro’s swords taking human-form and telling him that they liked his food very much. It made him happy, and he heard someone say that he must be having sweet dreams because he was smiling. But then he fell deeper. He went back further and saw sneers, felt fists, heard ugly, tormenting laughter. He was surrounded by bright colour that should have been joyous, but wasn’t. It was cold. Stone-cold. Iron-cold. And then he was back at Thriller Bark. He _always_ came back to Thriller Bark, and he awoke screaming and sweating and swatting at the person trying to restrain him. He screamed for Zoro. He had to see Zoro.

“Cook, it’s okay. It’s me. I’m here.”

“Zoro is right here, Sanji,” said Nami.

“It’s okay,” said Usopp, “you’re safe.”

_It’s not me_ , Sanji thought, frustrated. _It’s Zoro. Zoro is the one who’s not safe_! _Zoro is the one who’s dead_!

Eventually, his fever-dreams receded and he awoke in Zoro’s arms. Or rather, he awoke _beneath_ Zoro’s arms, because the man was lying almost on top of him, dead-asleep, himself, and closing Sanji into a small, safe space. Sanji wouldn’t admit it, but it felt good to have Zoro’s weight pressing down on him, like having a big, heavy blanket draped over him. Based on the placement of Zoro’s hands—loosely holding Sanji’s biceps—Sanji suspected Zoro was there to keep him calm and stop him from thrashing in his sleep, which was much less embarrassing than it was comforting. He closed his eyes, drifting back to sleep.

“Sanji?”

Sanji turned his head, craning his neck to see over Zoro’s bulk, and spotted—

“ _Luffy_!”

The captain was standing in the doorframe, wearing his straw hat and signature grin. “Sanji, you’re awake! That’s good. I’m hungry.”

Sanji couldn’t believe it. Luffy looked as good as ever, healthy and happy and characteristically unfazed by the sleeping position of his crewmates. Sanji pushed half-heartedly at Zoro, but gave up when the man only grunted in his sleep.

“How long have I been asleep for?” he asked.

“Um, three days? The rest of us woke up yesterday.” Luffy tapped his chin, then shrugged. “Nami says we’re back on course, now. We caught a ton of fish! And an octopus, but nobody knows how to cook it.” He looked pointedly at his cook again, and said: “Sanji, I’m _hungry_.”

Sanji was still weak, but he couldn’t help the smile—relieved and indulgent—that stole over his face.

“Okay, Captain. Help me up.”


	8. Epilogue

Hey, _marimo_ , can we talk for a minute?”

Zoro was in the crow’s nest—against Chopper’s advice, no doubt. The doctor had made an inspection of the swordsman’s injuries and merely _hummed_ at Sanji’s stitching, then re-wrapped Zoro with bandages in his own expert fashion. Due to the danger and malnutrition—and his unplanned swim in the sea—he was no more healed now than he had been leaving Thriller Bark, which worried Chopper and frustrated Zoro, himself, but the idiot was more impatient than anything.

“Chopper’s going to kill you,” said Sanji, nodding to the weights in Zoro’s hands. “After he re-stitches you, of course.”

Zoro scowled at him. “What do you want?”

Sanji sighed and walked into the bright, circular room, setting down the trey he had brought. Onigiri and saké, just like he’d promised. He sat down on the bench and looked out the window, talking to the sparkling sea.

“What I said on that rock... I didn’t mean it like—”

“I know,” Zoro interrupted. He put the weights down and faced away from Sanji, burying his face in a towel.

“Right, well…” Sanji shifted awkwardly. “It’s just—”

“ _I know_ , Cook. It’s fine. We were all starving and exhausted and desperate, none of us were thinking clearly. But it’s done now.”

Sanji nodded. He swallowed. “And that—kiss? Us kissing?”

Zoro stiffened. “What about it?”

“I want to forget it happened.”

An uncomfortable silence stretched between them, making Sanji feel hot beneath his collar, making his heart beat fast. He glanced sideways and saw tension in Zoro’s shoulders, but finally the swordsman shrugged.

“It’s forgotten.”

“I want us to go back to the way we were before,” Sanji pressed.

_I want to fight you_ _and argue with you. I want you to tease me and challenge me and trust me to have your back_. _I don’t want you to look at me softly_ , _or hold me… or kiss me_ … _I don’t want to dream about you anymore_ , he lied to himself. _I don’t want to feel this way about you_.

“Okay.”

Zoro’s deep voice cut like a sword slash. Sanji pursed his lips.

“Okay, good,” he said, standing. “Good, so, nothing changes then. And you won’t—?”

It was Zoro’s turn to sigh. He tossed the towel aside and faced Sanji. “I’m not going to tell anyone, so you can unscrew your face, Cook.”

Sanji bristled. “Well, _excuse me_ for not wanting anyone to know that I kissed _you_.”

Zoro’s lips curled into a grin. “So, you admit it, huh? _You_ kissed _me_.”

A wash of heat crept over Sanji’s face. “No, I— _that’s not what I meant_! Oh, forget it,” he huffed, stuffing his hands into his pockets. One of his hands curled around his lighter, and he wished desperately that he had a cigarette. The other hand clenched fabric, weathered but freshly cleaned. “You really should rest for a bit. You look like shit,” he insulted with purpose, grabbing for a verbal defense. “And eat the snack I made you.”

“Yeah, yeah, I will.”

Sanji strode to the door, then stopped. He looked back at Zoro, who was looking at him: sea-blue eyes staring meaningfully into steel-grey. He saw the man who had sacrificed himself for his captain, his crew, and knew that Zoro saw the same in him. He knew that they shared something between them now, whether they liked it or not. A secret that was more than a stolen kiss.

Sanji pulled Zoro’s bandana from his pocket and threw it at him. Zoro caught it in surprise.

“Nothing happened, right?” said Sanji with a rueful smile.

Zoro nodded. “Nothing happened.”

* * *

**THE END**

**THANK-YOU for reading. Reviews are always welcome and appreciated :)**


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